Sometimes only paper
Will listen.
Sometimes only the pen
Will speak.

As I move to another chair,
I leave the warmth of
The seat I left behind,
Because I search for a new perspective.

I need a new view.
My hand moves my pen.
The ink makes its mark.
The paper hears my pen,

But does not converse,
Remaining blank and open
Offering lines for guidance;
Awaiting the words.

I wait for the words.
Am I the paper?
Is my mind the pen?
If thoughts were ink

The wind would carry
Words to the clouds;
A million colored lines
Reaching to infinity.


©April 28, 2025
Diane E. Dockum